


Charcoal (Fire Emblems)

by ryucreates



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, But whatever, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Well - Freeform, gods theres too many characters, just assume any of them could show up, more like lovers to enemies to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25409989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryucreates/pseuds/ryucreates
Summary: It hasn’t been Deacon’s job necessarily, to know what happens outside of the Commonwealth. He keeps tabs on the Wasteland, yes, but there’s only so much caps can do, when you’re watching a ruined world. So maybe he’s been out of the loop. Still. He should definitely know who the hell transports synths out of the ‘Wealth- especially with a name like ‘Longhorn’.
Relationships: Cait/Female Sole Survivor/Piper Wright, Deacon/Robert Joseph MacCready
Comments: 20
Kudos: 14





	1. Heave Ho

**Author's Note:**

> Jeeze, this has been on my mind since I've started playing Fallout 4- where the hell do synths go once they're out of the Commonwealth?  
> Well, hopefully my crazy ass mind can help answer that, enjoy a weird slow burn that also doubles as filling for plot holes ;P  
> Thanks to my lovely beta, crystalandtragix - she made sure that not only did I not go insane writing this, but that I actually had commas in appropriate places. 
> 
> Anyways if u wanna listen to a mood setting song try out Cig, by Baby FuzZ.

It hasn’t been Deacon’s job necessarily, to know what happens outside of the Commonwealth. He keeps tabs on the Wasteland, yes, but there’s only so much caps can do, when you’re watching a ruined world. So maybe he’s been out of the loop. Still. He should definitely know who the hell transports synths out of the ‘Wealth- especially with a name like ‘Longhorn’.

Now, he knows that they’ve got transports from the ‘Wealth to, say, the Wastes, or to Far Harbor, but further than that, well. 

Yeah, he needs to brush up on his history.

When Dez first pulled him aside to tell him that he and Blue would be meeting a field agent, Deacon had to hold back a laugh. He’d been recruiting for the Railroad since he was a goddamn runner- surely he’d know who the hell this ‘Longhorn’ character was, and since he didn’t, how could they even trust them, whoever they were? Dez actually looked a bit pissed at him for choking on his spit, saying that he by all means should know said agent, seeing as they’d been around longer than even Wyatt.

Yeah, he  _ really _ needs to brush up on his history. God, he thought he was the only survivor of that godforsaken- that place. The place he never needs to think about ever again.

In any case, as soon as Dez let him actually walk away from her- thank Atom for that- he hopped onto a terminal, accessing the list of agents that he  _ thought _ he had memorized.

Yeah, agent Longhorn? Not there. What the hell. He switched over to tourists- maybe Longhorn was in the wrong place? No? What about safehouses- fuck. Big, fat nope on this one. 

_ Ask P.A.M _ , his traitorous brain, which sounded disturbingly like Dez, said.  _ Take one for the team, and admit that you forget so much shit like, all the time _ . Yeah, that’s actually uh. . . that’s fair. He should really actually talk to that old bot more-  _ can’t let Glory get all the, heh, glory _ . 

Which is where he found himself, loitering about the little area P.A.M wandered around in, leaning against the broken brick walls like he  _ wasn’t _ currently reevaluating all of his thoughts on how good his memory was.

P.A.M, as always, paragon of fucking wisdom that she was, stared Deacon down as if he had just murdered a child right in front of her. 

Deacon shifted from his position against the wall, uncrossing his arms and pretending like he  _ wasn’t  _ currently moping at his failure of a memory, and said, “So Pammy-Jammies, what’s up?”

“ _ All processes are busy. _ ”

Well, good on him, he took one for the team, but obviously the taken one has been taken and he can totally leave now, since P.A.M’s busy and all he can just exit quietly and-

“ _ Processing Complete. Agent. Deacon. Your arrival was not calculated. _ ”

Fuck.

“Yeah. . . About that, I wanted to know if there’s an Agent called Longhorn in the Railroad?”

“ _ Processing verbal input. _ ”

Deacon shuffled his hands around, crossing them over his chest only to stick them back into his pockets and rock awkwardly on his heels as he watched P.A.M do her. . . thing. 

Finally, P.A.M’s assaultron eyeball-thing flashed, and she spoke up again.

“ _ Query processed. Agent. Longhorn. Field Agent, Heavy. Former Safehouse Owner: The Ranch. Currently calculated to be at Bunker Hill. _ ”

She fell silent, and her little light-thing went dark.  _ Great. At least Bunker Hill isn't that far away.  _

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Ok, so maybe he shouldn’t have left the church at 3 in the morning, sue him. He thought that the way was decently safe, until he just  _ had  _ to stumble into a goddamn mutant hound. 

Fickle fucking fingers of fate.

So now here he was, hiding behind a fucking  _ car _ of all things,  _ Fusion powered car- you’re hiding behind a mini nuke, Deacon, MOVE! _

He dashed out, just as the goddamn muties  _ finally  _ figured out where the hell he was, and just as he managed to put about 20 feet, a brick wall, and a whole ass road between him and said mini nuke waiting to happen, the muties exploded the damn thing. 

So maybe he should have been paying more attention to where the fuck he was walking. 

Scratch that, he thought as he heard the beeping, he never should have left the church at all. He should have sat on his ass twiddling his thumbs until Blue showed up so they could go together. 

_ Maccready would have been with her _ , mental-Deacon said,  _ Last time you saw him you fucked it up, again. _

Mental-Deacon could go sit on a fucking deathclaw.

_ You’re a bitch,  _ Mental-Deacon said.

There were 6 bullets left in his gun.

The beeping was getting faster.

God, he should have waited for Blue.

Deacon patted his pack- there must be a stealth-boy he could use  _ somewhere _ \- and came up empty handed. He shifted along the wall, hoping to whatever the hell counted as a god in these lands that the suicider would pass by the building he was hiding behind as he snuck away.

No dice- the beeping of the mini-nuke was both louder and faster. God, this was the end- super spy, agent for over 20 years and he dies to a fucking  _ mutant _ ? This was the shittiest humor he could think of- blown up not by the institute, but by a dumb-dust-for-brains mutie holding a mini nuke like a goddamn football and- there! An alcove in the wall! Deacon ducked into the barely four foot tall space, crouching and sending pains arching through his spine with the stretch- fuck, he was getting old.

The beeping was reaching a crescendo- and along with it came the huffs and footfalls of the suicider, but it mercifully passed his little alcove in the alley without even glancing his way. Deacon caught his breath, listening as the thumping of feet drew further and further away, until all sounds of super mutants faded into the background, leaving only the indistinct caws of crows and the whistling of the wind behind.

It felt like Deacon was crouched there for hours- hunched over on himself and desperately listening for any footsteps, breaths, or shifts of fabric. God, he hoped they had left. 

Finally, when his head stopped screaming at him to  _ run, fast, get out get out get out GET OUT! _ He moved.

Slowly, cautiously, back creaking and popping as he went, Deacon left the alcove, feeling along the bricks until the shadows of the alley let up and he could actually see what the hell was going on without taking off his sunglasses.

_ If you took off the sunglasses in the first place, then you wouldn’t  _ be  _ in this mess _ , mental-Deacon supplied, sounding awfully smug for a figment of his imagination. 

Again, mental-Deacon could go sit on a goddamn mirelurk queen.

He liked those sunglasses, ok? They hid his eyes, kept people from seeing how fucking. . . distinct they were- from seeing him anywhere than where he explicitly wanted them to.

Plus, they were a pretty nice pair of old aviators- he picked them up back when Pinky was in charge and he’s never looked back.  _ Heh, looked _ . 

Wait.

Why couldn’t he hear the birds?

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Maccready was regretting his decision to go with Blue already. She knew, dam-darn it, that he hated going  _ anywhere _ near the railroad after Deacon- after what happened. And yet, she just  _ had  _ to look at him with those big puppy dog eyes- how could he resist? 

So they went to Old North Church, went down dusty hallways with long dead- ew- ferals, past a stupid passcode even a 4 year old could figure out, and all the way to the stupid HQ, where Desdemona plainly told them that. . .  _ he  _ had left sometime in the night for Bunker Hill.

Blue looked pretty put out, and turned around with a vague wave to the rest of the Railroad agents. Maccready followed her, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at the idiots gaping at him from behind crumbling brick walls. 

If he almost tripped on a stray brick that was purely a trick of the light, and most certainly not because he was thinking about a certain stupid pompadour wig.

Blue could go stuff it.

As soon as they left the old church, Maccready felt his lungs get impossibly lighter- the dust and smoke down there always got him two steps from sneezing all over the damn place. He took a deep breath, savoring the stretch and burn and the popping of his jaw- god was he glad to be back into the open air.

Blue was already several paces ahead of him, heading northwest for the bridge that would let them cross over to Bunker Hill. Maccready swung his rifle around from his back, holding it in a parody of a soldier’s stance, and hurriedly caught up to her rapidly retreating form.

“What’s the plan?”

Blue looked at him, glanced around herself even as she practically jogged down past Cabot House, and shrugged.

“Get to Bunker Hill, meet up with Deacon- Maccready don’t give me that look, I know that you and him aren’t on the best of terms-” Maccready snorted, “But he’s  _ apparently _ who we need to work with to do this mission.”

Maybe he could get away with not looking anywhere near Deac-  _ his _ face. Maybe he could just watch their six, not be engaged in any conversations, and just completely forget about the presence of the other man.

The ricochet of bullets definitely painted a different picture.

The last time they’d passed through this area, only a few days before, he and Blue had cleared out a small camp of raiders. Had more come? Or worse, had a Gunners patrol passed through?

Flashed images of blood on concrete and all too familiar sunglasses lying crushed on the pavement flew unbidden through his mind- god, what if Deacon was ambushed? What if he was-

Maccready turned the safety off on his rifle, ducking behind a crumbling building. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Blue pull out her nasty bat, the one with all the spikes and the saw blade on it, and move forward with slow, cautious steps.

There was a fire escape on the building behind him, not too rusted, so Maccready set his foot on the first step, hoping to whatever governed the world that it would hold and not crumble under his weight. 

He took one step, and another, and another, stopping at the dangerous sounding creaks and making sure that he only stepped on clearly stable sheets of metal.

Maccready let out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding as he stepped onto the roof. Luckily for him, there was a lattice of bridges connecting his platform to the other buildings. 

The connection between roofs proved useful as Maccready picked his way across the street. He could see Blue from where he was, looking like a bloatfly from the height he was at. 

The gunfire was a steady ratchet by then, seeming like an unending flow of crackling shots. To Maccready it sounded like a minigun, rounds and rounds of tiny little shells and bullets just rattling through the gun and onto the ground. At least that ruled out raiders- they rarely had anything more advanced than a pipe rifle.

Then again, if. . . Deacon. . . was down there, he was in a lot more danger. Hel-heck, even a super mutant could be a godda-dang killing machine with a fricking  _ minigun _ .

So Maccready went over to the edge of the roof he was on, peeking his head out like some sort of mole rat, and stopped.

There were three super mutants, one with the minigun he’d heard, one with a nasty bladed board, and a third- 

Oh fuck, (Duncan forgive him).

It was a suicider.

Maccready fumbled with his rifle, hurriedly setting it up and peering down the scope- he couldn’t just shoot the nuke out of the mutie’s hands- Blue was too close, he’d hurt her and then Piper would fu-fricking  _ kill  _ him. 

His hands were  _ not  _ shaking- he glared down the scope and made sure that the suicider’s ugly head was right in the crosshairs.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He took the shot.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

In all honesty, Deacon should have expected this. Of  _ course  _ the mutants had to stick around longer than anticipated- as soon as he stepped out of his little alleyway one of the bastards opened up fire on him from a fucking  _ minigun _ \- God, he was blaming the early morning darkness on his inability to notice a goddamn 7 foot tall super mutant with a  _ minigun _ , Jesus.

As soon as he had shuffled out of his hidey hole, he rushed back in. Hopefully the brick wall would keep the tiny 5mm bullets from eating a fucking hole through his guts.

Of course, his luck didn’t hold. As soon as that bastard with the minigun seemingly ran out of bullets, the crack of a rifle rang out.

Oh, fuck.

Deacon scrambled out of the alcove, patting at his pack as if the last time he’d searched for a Stealth Boy was null and void- he turned towards the mouth of the alley just as something tumbled into his line of sight-

A mini nuke.

Where was the suicider?

There was dark almost green blood spreading from the edge of the wall- a third party had entered the mix.

Double fuck.

There had to be more cover somewhere, Deacon couldn’t just be left out in the open like this, mini nuke sitting less than 10 feet away from him-  _ oh god, if it went off, one stray shot would kill everyone on the block _ \- with an unknown party somewhere behind him and at least two more mutants in the mix, he’d killed the hound and the suicider was dead, but there was still the minigun mutie and the one with the board he’d seen rushing past his alcove.

_ Run, _ mental-Deacon urged, any traces of Dez’s normal tone had vanished and he was left with a voice that sounded disturbingly like a certain dirty blond mercenary-

Deacon shook his head- it wouldn’t do him  _ or  _ Maccready any good to be thinking about him at this moment. He had to get out, run fast and far until he could collapse on a mattress in the safety of HQ- forget about this stupid mission until Blue came along and gave him backup, Maccready be damned.

Ok so maybe not damned, per se, but certainly ushered away from the inner mechanisms of Deacon’s mind, due to a breach of professional policy that he would not speak of any further.

So wrapped up in his thoughts, Deacon turned around the corner of the alley, coming face to face with the minigun toting mutant.

It turned towards him, dumb crumpled face sneering and lifting up the heavy gun, aiming, the rotors of the barrel started spinning and heating up and the tips were glowing, glowing, glowing hot orange red and-

Deacon fired.

And fired.

And fired.

His gun clicked on the seventh pull of the trigger, empty.  
  
\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Time seemed to go too fast for Maccready- one moment he was pulling the trigger on the suicider, the second the one with the minigun collapsed to show Deacon of all people- Maccready wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry- god, what luck, to have Deacon right there, not 20 feet from a goddang mini nuke, with the last living mutant bearing down on him with a bladed board-

Deacon wasn’t moving.

And as fast as the minutes before had been, Maccready swore each heartbeat felt a millennium long as the board arched down from where it had been held. 

God, Deacon- why wasn’t he moving? What was he doing? There was a mutant right behind him,  _ Deacon, come on, look behind you, you dumb idiot! _

_ Deacon, MOVE! _

He twisted, just in time- the blade of the board went right into his shoulder, too close to his neck- the wooden side of the board crashing into Deacon’s forehead and-

Deacon dropped, legs and arms akimbo like a marionette with its strings cut- the board was still stuck in his shoulder but the mutant wasn’t holding it, what happened to the mutant? What happened to Deacon? Why didn’t he move, he should have seen that mutant coming from miles away, should have twisted deftly and shot it right between its eyes, should have laughed a clear and confident laugh, shooting Maccready a thumbs up with a witty comment about boards or wood or something, should have done anything except fall limp with the wood stuck in his shoulder, should have-

Deacon wasn’t moving.

Maccready was halfway down the scaffolding of the building he was on before he realized he was moving. His heart was too fast, he could hear it in his ears- his hands were shaking, god why were they shaking? Deacon was fine, he’d get up in a second and stick a stimpak into his shoulder, grinning and joking and- and-

Faintly Maccready felt the scrape of gravel and rubble against his hands- he couldn’t remember climbing all the way down the scaffolding, did he jump? He didn’t know where Blue was- couldn’t remember what she had been doing as Deacon was-

As Deacon-

God, fuck, Deacon.

He was right in front of him, collapsed on the ground and too quiet, too still- there was a roaring in his ears and Deacon’s face warped, and suddenly it wasn’t Deacon on the ground- the roaring turned into hands gripping at the edges of his vision- the world was narrowing and Maccready could swear that he could feel hands tearing at his clothes- he grabbed Lucy’s shirt- they couldn’t have her, they couldn’t take her away from him, he wouldn’t let them- 

He was yanked back by the collar of his duster, sent sprawling on the subway floors- God, where was Duncan, he had to get Duncan and get out of there, had to leave, had to run and run and run and run and-

“Maccready! Snap out of it, man! C’mon! Deacon’s alive!”

He could see the stars.

And Blue.

Oh God, Deacon.

Maccready lurched up, gasping out something that definitely wasn’t a sob- eyes flickering from Blue’s almost angry-concerned face to Deacon’s prone figure on the ground, board lodged in his shoulder and blood everywhere- God, there was blood everywhere-

“Maccready.”

He looked at Blue.

“Deacon is alive, Maccready.”

No, he was on the ground, just, just lying there- God, Maccready should have been faster, should have shot the mutant before it even got close-

“Maccready, look at me.”

He looked.

“I need you to focus, ok? Where are your stimpaks.”

His back pocket- he felt around there, fishing out a handful of bullets and a singular stimpak- he swore he had more, where were they? 

With distant eyes Maccready watched as Blue methodically took the stimpak out of his numb hand. She used her combat knife- when did she pull that out, he wondered- to cut down the seam of Deacon’s flannel shirt- the board was stuck in deep, right next to the collarbone-  _ look away, look away, look away _ \- the board had scraped hard down Deacon’s cheekbone- he could see splinters of wood caught in the skin where he was sat.

There was a small pop as the stimpak was opened, and Maccready watched with half lidded eyes as Blue injected small portions of it into Deacon’s neck. She pulled out something from her pack- bright purple, and injected it into the base of Deacon’s shoulder before looking back at Maccready, mouth set in a thin line.

He registered her words in a haze, “We need to take the blade out of his shoulder, Maccready- I need you to help me pull it out.” He had his hands on the board, and had to swallow down the bile that rose in his throat as he looked down at Deacon’s pale face.

_ Look away, look away, look away _ -

They pulled, and Deacon screamed.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


	2. Rising Tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there’s one thing Deacon hates more than the Institute, it’s not knowing what’s going on. Sue him, he’s a master of information, disguises, and above all, paranoia. Knowing what’s around him has saved his hide more times than he’s comfortable admitting, so waking up in a too soft bed, in a too soft house, in a too soft place?
> 
> That set off his alarms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wham bam, another chapter done. hope u like it )))
> 
> also i am absolutely going to keep naming chapters with ship like sayings, the ocean is wicked and wonderful and i am just a poor cajun lad from texas, sue me.
> 
> also im terribly bad at summaries, hope you dont mind the fact that im just. . . using the beginning paragraph ////

If there’s one thing Deacon hates more than the Institute, it’s not knowing what’s going on. Sue him, he’s a master of information, disguises, and above all, paranoia. Knowing what’s around him has saved his hide more times than he’s comfortable admitting, so waking up in a too soft bed, in a too soft house, in a too soft place?

That set off his alarms.

As soon as his eyes had opened, Deacon shut them- God, it was too fucking bright- he clenched his fists and took stock of his body like he was checking items off of an itinerary- he was lightheaded, and his ears felt like they were full of cotton. There was a low burning in his shoulder- even flexing his hands left a sour taste in his mouth and a high pitched hiss in the air. 

Fuck, the last thing he remembered was walking out of the Church in the early morning- it was a bad idea, he should have waited for Blue, should have sat on his ass and waited for Blue and. . . Maccready to show up so he could pop a joke and a (fake, lying, horrible) grin while Blue rolled her eyes and Maccready. . . fuck, Maccready.

If he was on his way to Bunker Hill when he presumably went down, then Dez would have directed Blue and Maccready to follow him, meaning whatever got Deacon may have still been around for Blue and Maccready, meaning that-

Deacon lurched up, frantically searching the room with near unseeing eyes- fuck, what happened to him, where were his sunglasses, where the fuck was he-

“Deacon, you’re awake!”

No he was not, he was not awake because this _had_ to be a dream- Maccready should _never_ sound so excited and happy about him anymore- not after. . . Deacon fucked up.

It was too late to lay back down and pretend that he was asleep- too late to be suave and act like he’d seen Maccready, fuck, when did his senses get so busted that he couldn’t even realize that he wasn’t alone in a room- Christ, where the hell were his sunglasses?

“You shouldn’t be sitting up like that, Allah knows your collarbone will hate you for it, Habibi.”

Well, that answered the question of what had happened to Blue and Maccready at least. He turned his head- fuck, that hurt- to look at the doorway in which Blue stood.

She was there- when was she not? Deacon shouldn’t have been surprised, she tailed him as much as he tailed her- he remembers long nights in caravan outfits, talking to Old Man Stockton, watching in the corner of his eyes as Blue scribbled in the notebook she always seemed to have on her. He remembers standing guard in Diamond city, seeing Blue buy pencils at Percy’s, only to turn around, glance at him with all too knowing eyes, and open up her notebook again. He remembers talking to Daisy, in the middle of a conversation when she brightened up at the sight of a pale blue scarf- only to see Blue walking up, casting him one, two, three glances, before smirking and turning to chat with Daisy about a returned book (He found out later, after walking past the Boston Library, that the mutants who once infested the area were gone.). He remembers that day in HQ, when she came strolling through the doorway (He’d helped design it, Tinker Tom had the bright idea, but Deacon suggested the codes.)- how she grinned at him, blue scarf wrapped tightly around her head, Maccready trailing unsteadily behind- (He found out later that the scarf was called a Hijab, that Blue prayed five times a day, that she helped everyone not because she wanted power, but because she saw it as a divine act of goodness.)- how after joining, she gave Deacon a soft smile (And hell, did that remind him of Barbara, of his mother.), flicked Maccready’s hat off, and pulled out a dark blue notebook, filled to the brim with notes, sketches, and poetry- she had opened it to a page in the middle, littered with sketches of Deacon. 

She smiled at Deacon, that small, soft grin, that beautiful thing, like a mother to her child. She smiled at him like he was better than he was, like he was worth something, anything- like he wasn’t the scum of the earth, for what he’s done, for what he did to so many people, for what he did to _Maccready_. 

Maccready, who was looking at him, tinges of concern making the edges of his lips clench and drop, a mockery of caring, a mockery of anything, how could he still look at Deacon with anything except hate? How could he look at Deacon’s wretchedness and respond not with contempt, but worry? How could he stomach the sight of Deacon, when Deacon had. . . wronged him.

When Deacon had wronged him as he had.

When Deacon had seen his sensitivities, held him as he shook apart, watched his back time after time after time- only at the last moment to stab him in the back.

To lie.

And yet, there he was.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

To say that Maccready was exhausted would be an understatement. A very vast understatement, in fact.

He was bone dead tired, and goddarnit, he deserved it. He’d lugged a surprisingly heavy man across a fricking bridge, around a lot of walls, and through an entire tense conversation with whoever was guarding the gates to Bunker Hill that morning. He’d watched as Blue, paragon of endurance, reasoned and charmed her way into getting them inside- the poor kid in charge of the gate looked ready to faint by the time Blue was done mothering him.

Maccready remembers when Blue used to handle him like that, like fine china, like something worth caring about. Of course, a lot of the delicacy went away after Mass Pike, and the worried glances stopped after MedTek. She still mothers him though, despite only physically being 6 years older than him. He knows that if he brought that up she’d return with her 210 years in cryostasis, and wasn’t that a friggin’ trump card these days?

He knows by now that she’s coping with the loss. He knows how she feels, to lose a spouse, to basically lose a son - Maccready has to pause, reinforcing the knowledge that _Duncan is fine, Duncan is getting better, you’ll see him soon._

He gets it.

Maybe that’s why watching her hover anxiously over Deacon’s all too still form doesn’t rile him up. It’s most certainly not because he cares about Deacon, not after what he did.

 _What if that too was a lie?_ His treacherous brain supplies, and Maccready ignores it in favor of getting something to drink. He tosses a halfhearted farewell to Blue, who barely pauses in her worried fluttering around the hastily set up cot in the trading hall.

As soon as he exits, however, it’s like his body doesn’t know what to do with itself. He’s just standing there, aching shoulders, aching feet, aching everything- _What if that was a lie?_

But it must have been true, right? Deacon was- god, Deacon just _was_ , he was out of his mind on the Med-X Blue gave him, floating already in the hazy pain of broken bones and concussions- nothing that he said could be true, right?

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Maccready pulled, and Deacon. God, Deacon screamed. 

There was a terse moment- stretching on for eternities as Maccready felt his soul leaving his body- where everything was so awfully still. Deacon was so still. So hot, and so cold, somehow both extremes existing in the same space, somehow both twining between Maccready’s fingers and up his arms until he could do little more than shiver in the oppressive silence.

Blue inserted the syringe- too empty, not enough stims, not enough healing- into Deacon’s pale neck.

The puddle of blood that had been steady growing since they’d pulled the fu-fricking chainsaw blade out seemed stagnant.

At this point, Maccready wasn’t sure if that was because the stims healed him, or because he’d bled out. His heartbeat was too loud, somehow vibrating into his very skull, knocking out every other sound in existence until his entire life narrowed down onto that livewire- booming and thumping and pounding like the crack of a rifle, like the sound of a behemoth’s footsteps, like so many things, but most of all complete and utter dread.

Blue tapped him on the shoulder, gesturing with her free hand at Deacon, not saying a word because she knew how much he hated people being stupidly obvious, but what he wouldn’t give in that moment for her to just face him head on and give him an order- what he wouldn’t give for her to be blunt with him, to tell him to do something or else.

Maybe Blue was a mind reader, or maybe she just saw how his face had crumpled in on itself, because her tapping turned into a hand rubbing at his shoulder blades, and her gestures became muttered words in his ears- 

“Pick him up.”

What else could he do?

He slung Deacon’s arm around his own- hoisted his dead weight up until both were sort of standing, and dropped himself down to grab Deacon under his knees. Fireman carry established, he shuffled around until he could look at Blue. She had her hands out, seemingly gauging the stability of his hold. 

It was most likely fine- he couldn’t shoot, due to Deacon’s dead weight across his shoulders, but that was fine. They were barely 200 meters from Bunker Hill, and Blue had saved him so many times that letting her watch his six was almost as natural as breathing.

They’d be fine.

They’d been fine, right up until Deacon woke up.

At first it was a groggy shifting of his neck- Maccready barely noticed it in his peripherals, too busy making sure the way in front of them was clear.

Then it was the whimpering every time Maccready took a step. He’d started four blocks away from Bunker Hill, and even with the massive tower just in sight, Maccready felt his resolve to keep moving on, to ignore it all, start to crumble.

It was definitely the weak attempts at escape once they passed the gates that did him in. 

By the time they’d found an empty cot, Deacon was whispering and mumbling right into Maccready’s ear.

Most of it didn’t make any sense, muttered names like “Barbara”, and “Wyatt”- but some of it was almost enough to give Maccready pause.

“Maccready. . .”

Yeah. Maybe it’d be best for the both of them if Maccready just. . .stepped out.

“. . .I’m sorry. . .”

Wait, what? 

Of all the things Maccready thought he’d hear coming out of Deacon’s mouth, no matter how out of it he may be, an apology was not one of them. Or at least, not a sincere one.

Thoughts of leaving swept aside by a burning curiosity, Maccready drew up a chair to sit beside Deacon’s bed.

It was weird, seeing the normally unflappable man so vulnerable, though Maccready fathomed that was due to the lack of sunglasses. 

He’d seen them, smashed almost to bits by the force of the blow to Deacon’s head- sent skittering down the little alley and into the road. They lay unforgotten in Maccready’s duster- right next to where the little wooden soldier used to sit. The frames were mangled- even if they’d found some tinker to take a look at it, Maccready doubted they’d be fixable. 

Maybe it was a metaphor, in a weird, convoluted way. Maybe he and Deacon weren’t meant to be together, maybe their relationship was as mangled as the spindly wires of the glasses in his breast pocket. 

Maybe not though, as Deacon’s hands clenched once, twice, and his eyes fluttered open, almost unseeing.

He looked right at Maccready then, tongue darting out to wet his mouth. His eyes were blue, Maccready thought.

Blue like the sky used to be, like water should have been. Crystallized like the ice that formed on the roof of Little Lamplight in the winter. Clear and piercing and cold and calculated- and crying.

He whispered something then, something Maccready doubted he’d ever hear again, something he doubted Deacon would even remember saying-

“I’m so scared that I’ll lose you, you know?”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

So maybe Maccready had realized how deep a pile of brahmin crap he was in. So what? He could still hope, still think that maybe, just maybe, Deacon actually gave a crap about him.

He’d just finished his cigarette when he heard a muffled curse from the trading hall. He pivoted, half expecting Deacon to have fallen out of bed- but Blue affixed him with a piercing gaze- she’d done something stupid, of that Maccready was sure.

She jogged out of the hall, muted blue scarf catching in the wind, almost unraveling until she grabbed at it with a soft curse, looking quite odd as she double-timed her way over to him, both hands securing her scarf where it sat on her head.

It was usually tied much tighter, and it seemed like Blue was pulling on it excessively hard as she wrapped the loose piece back around her neck, presumably tucking it into the folds on the back of the wrap. 

Blue glanced up at Maccready, normally splotched face somehow more. . . splotched as she blushed and balled her fists at her sides. 

Had Maccready not been holding a still lit cigarette, he might have laughed. As it was, he merely dropped the butt and crushed it under the heel of his boot, casting a glance at the rising sun in the distance. 

He kept his head turned respectfully, as sounds of cloth unraveling reached his ears. Instead, he watched everywhere other than Blue, making sure that all other residents had, at least temporarily, left. 

After the first time Blue had to change her scarf- Hijab, she’d said, - Maccready had grown accustomed to keeping watch as she hid herself away to fix it. It wasn’t complicated, and Maccready never really thought about it, but Blue always gave him a dazzling smile afterwards- a beautiful grin splitting her face, turning the patches of lighter skin across her cheeks a light pink as she laughed. 

Maybe he just liked hearing her laugh.

She tapped his arm when she was finished, and Maccready glanced at her, tilting his head just slightly- she was only a bit shorter than him anyways. 

“Deacon’s condition is fairly stable.”

That was good. He’d been quite worried, to be honest. Even after the blood had stopped spreading, after the bandages had been secured- there was a twinge of discomfort running through his veins, spreading like a wildfire every moment Deacon spent prone on that cot, on his shoulders, straining his muscles and taking step after step, waving away Blue’s concerned hands and continuing onward- what else could he do? What else would he be able to achieve, seeing as he loved-

Seeing as he.

Fuck, the nicotine was getting to him.

Blue was still looking at him, maternal gaze pinning him where he stood, like an unfortunate bloatfly caught in his cross-hairs. 

“ You still care about him, don’t you?” She asked, calculating gaze cutting right through whatever weak and vague defenses he’d set up after Deacon had torn it all down, not a month before.

He didn’t say a word, but she forged on.

“ I don’t know, nor do I care, what inane thing he’s said to you, or whatever you did to him. I do care about you, I care about him, and I know that the both of you are hurting, badly.”

His hands were shaking as he fished out another cigarette from his duster.

“ From what I can tell, Honey, you and he are as thick as thieves. I’m not going to pretend like I’m oblivious to it, Robert.”

It kind of stung, hearing his first name like that- that disappointed tone echoing out into the empty grounds. Maybe it was because he hated his first name, hated the sound of it on someone else’s tongue after Lucy.

Maybe he was a goddamn-dang coward. 

He lit the cigarette, and Blue sighed.

“Look, Robert. I don’t know what’s causing both of you to dance around each other like you have been, but I don’t think it’s healthy for either of you, acting like this. I’m,” She sighed again, and Maccready turned his head just the tiniest bit- she was looking at him with those damn eyes again, the ones that could make a deathclaw cave- “ I’m not asking for you to apologize, or to be best friends again, but. . . just, please try to be honest to him. I’ll see to it that he’s honest with you as well.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Deacon, to put it mildly, felt like shit. After waking up, Maccready had pulled out a mangled pair of frames, apologized, and left the room with his metaphorical tail tucked between his legs. 

Blue just looked pissed, momentarily soft smile evaporating as soon as Maccready fled. She’d taken a seat, poised on the chair like a waiting radscorp, raised tail at the zenith of it’s height, ready to strike.

To say that Deacon was terrified would be an understatement.

Blue shifted, and Deacon’s hackles raised imperceptibly higher- how such a small and unimposing woman could be so fucking scary was an enigma to him.

“ You left at 3 in the morning, Deacon.”

Never mind, Deacon’s fear had reached new heights, he wanted to go back to HQ, please and thank you.

“ Now, I don’t want to know why, nor do I want to hear any excuses or lies for your behavior. I just want you to understand that I am, regrettably, disappointed in you. Whatever spat or quarrel you and Maccready had should not lead you to run off like that. I expected better from you, Deacon.”

And well, didn’t that hurt like a bitch?

“ Ah, Blue, my favorite gal-” 

Blue frowned, waving away his attempt at dissuasion like one would an annoying gnat.

“ I said no lies, Deacon. Whatever issue you have needs to be worked out. I cannot, will not, have either of you risking yourselves like this. I care about you two, Deacon,” Blue stood up, somehow seeming to loom over Deacon, and said; “ Figure this out, Habibi. I believe in you.”

Before Deacon could get in a word edgewise, she’d left, swept from the room like a radstorm in the wind.

Maybe that was for the best, leaving Deacon behind.

It hurt, yes, but in the long run it would be worth it.

He never was very good at relationships.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eheheh.
> 
> did you think i could go a chapter without heavy introspection and self loathing????
> 
> anyways in this house we drink respect religious women of color juice.  
> By the by, do you like her? my sole survivor??? i hope u do ))))))
> 
> ill prolly link my tumblr in a bit once i *actually* get some of my art of these precious babs up, so keep an eye out for that )))
> 
> anyways, expect chapter three in like, a week ) love alla yas!


	3. Clear Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been two days since their tumultuous arrival in Bunker Hill, and Maccready wasn’t any less tired. What made matters worse was that the supposed contact had left, apparently only a few minutes before their ragtag party arrived. Maccready wasn’t sure whether he wanted to scream, or walk into the pseudo clinic in the town to shake some sense into Deacon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am back, after more than a month. I am so sorry, school started up and by the fuckin gods was it hard to work on anything for a long period of time.   
> actually, i was wondering- it might be easier and faster for me to update if i did chapters in parts- i usually like making chapters about 3k long, but that takes a while. So uh, if you've got an opinion, please tell me in the comments!

It had been two days since their tumultuous arrival in Bunker Hill, and Maccready wasn’t any less tired. What made matters worse was that the supposed contact had left, apparently only a few minutes before their ragtag party arrived. Maccready wasn’t sure whether he wanted to scream, or walk into the pseudo clinic in the town to shake some sense into Deacon. 

Logically, he knew it wasn’t Deacon’s fault, he didn’t choose to be solidly brained, didn’t choose to have a chunk of metal lodged in his collarbone, but Maccready still fumed.

If they were just a bit faster, if Maccready had shot the last mutant sooner, if they had more stimpacks on them, maybe Deacon would be up and chatting with their contact, instead of lying half paralyzed in pain on a cot.

Old Man Stockton barely wanted to speak with them, communicating with Blue only through exceedingly vague phrases about dead drops and lost packages. More than once he’d seen Blue fiddle with the edges of her hijab, tugging at exposed threads and worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

The stress was getting to her.

The stress had already gotten to Maccready, ever since he fled from the trading hall. It wasn’t his proudest moment, not by far- he didn’t even mean to freak out, Deacon had just looked at him, his mask just slipping right into place like it was first nature, and Maccready. . . couldn’t handle it. 

He left.

He dropped off the broken, mangled glasses frames on Deacon’s lap, and practically ran out of the hall, ran out of Bunker Hill, sliding through a back door and running two or three blocks away until the pounding of his heartbeat drowned out the shame and concern in his chest.

When he’d finally walked back into the camp, Blue had only looked at him with poorly veiled concern, and Deacon was turned stiffly on his side in a new room, a ramshackle shed with a small red cross emblazoned on a banner covering the doorway. 

He hadn’t talked to Deacon since.

And maybe that was because he didn’t want to see his face, hear his stupid lies, or worse, his half truths. 

_ Maybe he really was a coward _ , Maccready thought as he wandered around the edges of the settlement. 

Someone screamed- Maccready flinched. Maybe the fallout had corroded everyone’s morals, or maybe he was just an asshole. 

He sat down, pockets heavy with bullets unfired. He had seven .308’s- not counting the three in his hat.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, he took off his hat, the faded and soft cotton stretching easily as he turned it to stare at the bullets he’d tucked into the band. 

There used to be two- maybe there should be two again, maybe he should take out the third, for what  _ he’d  _ done- maybe he shouldn’t. Lucy was still there, even though Maccready fuck-fricking  _ knew _ he couldn’t protect her anymore, even though he  _ knew  _ he failed, like he always failed, like he failed with  _ Deacon _ \- 

Thinking about failure could only get him so far, Maccready thought as he quickly stood up, still twisting and grabbing at his cap.

Shi-crap, he shouldn’t be outside Bunker Hill this late- the sun was already setting- how long had he been lost in his thoughts? Maccready turned his cap over, grasped the brim, and shoved it back over his unruly and curled hair as he pivoted on his heel to head back to the main gates of the settlement.

As he approached, however, he took note of the absence of any guards at the gate- caravan or otherwise. Even Kessler seemed to be missing- the older woman’s scowl still burned into Maccready’s mind, and he stopped just short of the walls, taking his time pulling his sniper out from around his back, checking over the magazine, the stock, and the barrel as he nonchalantly strolled up to the main entrance. 

As he got closer, he started to hear what sounded like an entire crowd of people chanting- he tucked his rifle under his arm, took a deep breath, and turned into the settlement, fully prepared to go see what the he-heck was happening-

He was not at all prepared to almost go sprawling- hands went wide, his rifle, his beloved and treasured rifle, his beautiful and wonderful rifle, his gift, his last memory of Lucy, dropping like a stone as he spun his arms in a pathetic pinwheel as his brain fell screeching to a halt, and just as he was about to eat the possibly contaminated and definitely irradiated gravel-

Someone grabbed his shoulders- raising him back up to his feet as easily as the blood rushed to his cheeks- Maccready blinked once, twice, looked up-

And flinched- Deacon was right in front of him, still holding his shoulders, still  _ touching _ him- why would he catch Maccready, why was he out of bed, he should be healing and not walking about for whatever reason-  _ why was Deacon still touching him? _

Maccready flinched again, lifting his arms as if to touch Deacon’s hands where they still held his shoulders, and Deacon just as swiftly released Maccready, backing away and almost causing Maccready to fall on his ass-butt. His butt. 

“Sorry, I uh. I didn’t mean to startle you, ‘Creads.”

He looked sheepish, and in all honesty that alone should have set Maccready’s alarms blaring- instead he just asked, 

“What the heck are you doing out of bed, you idiot?”

Deacon had the audacity to scratch at the back of his neck, hold out a hand for Maccready to take, and let out a little laugh. Maccready, like a fool, took the offered hand, and let Deacon lead him further into the settlement, past the shops, the clinic, and all the way to the trading hall, where Maccready could already see the crowd of settlers amassed in the center of the white pillars. Deacon stopped maybe 5 paces from the group, gingerly removing his hand from Maccready’s ever tightening grasp. He cocked his head to the side, like he was puzzling through a maze, and finally turned to Maccready. 

“There’s a fight going on. I don’t know who it’s between, but it's got everyone gathered ‘round Stockton’s stall.” 

“You still haven't answered my question, Deacon.”

Deacon, tall as he was, seemed to shrink into himself even more, and gave Maccready a small smile. 

“I uh. . . I got tired?”

“Of sleeping.”

“Yes.”

Maccready sighed, clasped his hands behind his back, and rocked forwards on his heels. Deacon withered even more, just about a puddle of irradiated denim and dirty plaid button ups, staring straight at Maccready through some bullcrap sunglasses he must have scrounged from some trader. The dam-dang things had thick white rims, giving Deacon what must have been one of the stupidest and admittedly kind of adorable appearance Maccready had ever-

He was gonna stop himself right there, thank you very much. 

_ It doesn’t matter _ , he told himself,  _ it doesn’t fricking matter that he looks the same, that he acts the same, that he looks at you and you can tell exactly what the hell he’s thinking- it doesn't  _ **_matter._ ** _ He doesn’t care. He can’t care, it’s just your head messing with you, telling you that maybe even after fucking- messing. Messing up, Atom I’m so sorry Duncan, I’ve failed you so much, I said I’d be better and god, I thought I had- If any of it had turned out different I  _ **_swear_ ** _ , I swear, Duncan.  _

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Maccready, on any given day, was overly thankful for Blue. Had she not been there, had she not sauntered into the Third Rail, had she not tripped Barnes, had she not reached her hand out to him like some sort of angel- 

He held a mutfruit in his left hand, tossing it occasionally to his right, back to his left, and finally raised to his mouth. 

Right as he was about to take a bite, Blue came out of the old church, hand in hand with some pompous looking. . . some dude with a pompadour and dirtied flannels. Blue waved at him, the joy of seeing him clear on her face, and Maccready perked up like some sort of love sick dog. 

He didn’t have a crush on Blue, per se- more of an admiration. She was everything he’d ever wanted to be, good with people, with kids, funny and charming and handsome and pretty and good in combat- just good. Blue was good people. 

When he’d originally taken her up on her offer- those big eyes she had whittled him down from 250 to 200 right quick, one blink and he was more than happy to follow her around, to shoot what she told him to, to watch her six, and to sit next to her on cold nights as she told him tales- he had thought her naive. How could someone be so bright, so stark against the dull contrast of the Commonwealth, so brilliant in her blues and purples, without being rotten in some way? She was either young and stupid-  _ Like you used to be _ , the back of his mind whispered, sending shudders through his spine because at the base of all of his issues, he knew it was right- or hiding something.

The first time she let him use the sleeping bag he’d feared for his life. He didn’t sleep at all, staring into the night sky, at the ground, at the struggling embers of the long dead fire, anywhere but the light blue scarf drifting daintily in the wind, anything but the curled figure gazing with searching, knowing, seeing eyes at their surroundings. 

She hadn’t done anything, of course, but he hadn’t  _ known  _ that then. He hadn’t known that watching her six let her watch his, hadn’t known that the two of them were back to back from the start. He hadn’t known anything, only that 200 caps was half of what he needed at month for Duncan. 

Oh, god, Duncan- what he wouldn’t do for Duncan. What Blue hadn’t done for Duncan, really- seeing how she practically stormed MedTek herself, taking down ghouls left and right with that nasty bat of hers as Maccready just stood, rooted to the ground, shaking hands and faltering fingers on his rifle- his rifle, his lovely rifle with the little heart carved into the stock, with the little L+RJ almost engraved into it, the only other thing he had left of  _ her _ \- he had three things, you know? He had three things left, his rifle, his son, and the soldier. 

Blue had the soldier now- he’d given it to her after she saved his son, after she did almost single handedly what he couldn’t for years- as she effortlessly made his life so much better, so much easier- he’d gotten two letters so far, both making him cry  _ so much _ \- one barely legible but Maccready knew, he just  _ knew _ , from the silly scrawl and the backwards letters and the jumble of doodles on the margins, that Duncan was better. 

Maybe Duncan had only been sick for half a year, but gods had Maccready been struggling for far longer. And Blue, wondrous Blue, amazing and beautiful and strong and caring Blue, just waltzed into his life and fixed so many of his problems just by reaching out, putting her hand on his shoulder, and holding him as he cried. 

So lost in his memories was he, that Blue was already animatedly pulling him down the trashed road by the time he came to his senses. The new guy- Deacon, he said his name was- had on the stupidest and most adorable sunglasses on.

_ Aviators _ , Maccready thought. 

Maccready wasn’t- he wasn’t into- he wasn’t gay, ok? But he could notice, right? He could look and see and admit that this new guy was kind of hot-

At least until he opened his mouth. 

God, how quick a potential crush could go to an absolute pain in the rear. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was the second month of knowing Deacon when Maccready finally broke. Deacon’s stupid comments, loud exclamations, and prodding questions itched and lurked under Maccready’s skin like the world’s worst demon- possession had never felt so stupid and pointless. 

It was worse when Blue grouped them up together, whether it be to run errands that Maccready never really minded doing in the first place, only ever making snarky comments when Blue later mothered over him for getting blisters or bruises from his travels. He’d be walking in silence, just enjoying the fact that he and Duncan were safe, that Blue was a real person, and that things were going good for him, and Deacon would just open his big fat mouth. 

The worst part wasn’t what Deacon said, really, it was how he’d say it. He’d talk like the world was crashing around him, simple phrases turning into melancholy notes and sarcasm displayed in plumes of fire- Deacon spoke like galaxies unfolding, like all things existing at the same time, like the cosmos wrapped around him. 

So maybe Maccready had a bit of a crush, sue him. It wasn’t like Deacon liked him back-  _ or liked you at all,  _ his mind supplied- so really, it was all harmless in the end, right?

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When it happened first Maccready only registered it after the fact. The fleeting touch, the wet pressure on his forehead- Maccready could have sworn it was Blue, had he not known she was back at the Castle. The only souls- friendly at least- in his peripherals had been Cait and Deacon- he knew it couldn’t be Cait, but that left Deacon.

Deacon, with his bright smiles, fake insults, his fake everything really, all of it so surrounding and sharp and so fu-fricking  _ beautiful _ \- so jagged at the edges like broken glass, catching the light at obscene angles and making Maccready so so soft- so vulnerable- and he never thought the lies would make him this way, never thought the daggered words would show him just how  _ soft _ Deacon was on the inside. 

Maccready thinks it was Deacon.

Maybe it was the softness of it- the slight bend to whoever did it, the posture, feeling, sounds- 

Maccready knows that it was the warmth. He knows it was the silence, the absence of words- the disappearance afterwards. 

And maybe he was in too deep, but he wanted it to happen again. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The first time he actually talked about it, Deacon ran away. 

It took Maccready three days to find him, one to track him down, the other two to drag him out of his shell again. 

Maccready was tired. 

To be fair, he was tired all the time- worrying about Duncan and Blue and everyone else just weighed down on his back like a brahmin on the road- and now Deacon. Deacon, with his lovely smiles, teasing words, and bittersweet lies he told himself. 

Deacon with his everything- his sharpened words shoved into his own chest like some sort of porcupine- Maccready remembers the book he’d read, so many years ago, wasn’t it? The one of the animals before the war- before the fallout. He’d known then about centaurs, about mutants, about deathclaws and mole rats and everything in between-

Porcupines were new though. He didn’t know pin cushions could be alive, after all- or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Looking at Deacon now, Maccready thinks he understands.

Sometimes your harsh words aren’t meant to hurt others- just yourself. He thinks he gets it now, why Deacon lies. 

Why he pushes everyone away.

After all, didn’t Maccready do the same thing?

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Their first time was awkward- bumping noses and weird marks afterwards- bruises on his thighs that Deacon only ever looked away from-

Maccready wished to tell him then, didn’t he- that those marks only made him more sure, more concrete in his thoughts- that the only thing better than the marks was Deacon himself, laying next to him on the warm nights in whatever passed for summer these days. 

He would sit, looking at mutfruit with new meaning, looking at the world in a different light- more blue, more icy- more warmth, more Deacon. 

Wasn’t that a damn-dang surprise? When they’d met Maccready was so sure, so obsolete in his thoughts that they’d just- that they’d just hate each other. 

He looked at Deacon and saw everything he’d ever seen in Barnes or Winlock- he looked and saw nothing but greedy ass- greedy jerks. 

It took him a while to see Lucy. 

Maybe he was desperately grasping at some sort of coping mechanism- finding her soft curls of hair in Deacon’s old poetry, lines coming out of his mouth like her lashes on his forehead- softly spoken, determined to make the floor fall from his feet. 

Maybe he wasn’t- maybe he actually-

Maybe he really-

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was a month after that Maccready was sure. It wasn’t a maybe anymore, it was a strong yes and Maccready didn’t know what to do with it, really. 

What was he supposed to do? He’d look in his mind, find that absolute, and shut the door on it- there wasn’t much of a chance really. 

_ Whatever helps you get to sleep at night. _

He’d pass Blue, her knowing looks digging into his back, flushed cheeks covered by large lapels and necks of coats- pinched mouth hidden from prying eyes- his own under the brim of his cap. 

She cornered him one day- shoved into a mission with her, just her, just him- and she’d taken her chance. 

“You like him.”

A statement, not a question. Maccready stood very still, not even breathing under her gaze. She huffed, looked him in the eyes, and pushed herself away from him.

“If he hurts you-”

“He doesn't know.” 

She stopped again, looking back at him with an almost pitiful expression- and Maccready just felt pissed. 

Oh, Duncan forgive him.

“You should tell him,  _ Habibi _ .”

“He won’t know, and that’s the end of the discussion. Ok?”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was only after he left that Maccready really fell apart.

He’d said the words- the words that you say, right? The right words, right? He’d said them, he swore he did, those stupid three words that meant both nothing and the world to him- those three little words. 

And now Deacon was gone. 

He was just gone. 

Blue couldn’t know- he grit his teeth and didn’t say a word to her- it was ok, he knew Deacon, knew he was just scared-

Deacon never meant to hurt him, right?

He’d come back, right?

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Maccready came back to himself just before Deacon coagulated back into some semblance of a human being. 

He’d taken the stupid sunglasses off at some point, looking at Maccready with some off sense of concern, when Blue bounded over to them, hijab writhing in the wind like a particularly energetic snake. 

“The contact’s coming back around- Stockton said some of his lookouts and tourists spotted the guy some ten minutes from here, we should get ready to go.”

Maccready cast a final glance at the crowd, which was oddly dispersing as he watched. 

Deacon coughed, gestured at the crowd, and sent a look at Blue’s considerably harried form. 

“I’m guessing you had absolutely  _ nothing _ to do with that, yes?”

Blue looked surprised, then curious, then very  _ very  _ guilty. Maccready took that as a no- her face was about as flushed as his, white splotches highlighted in pink and the rest a rosy brown- textbook regret.

Still, she gestured to the exit, giving up on speaking to rush just about as fast as she could out of the settlement, and Maccready, like a young pup, followed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oo a sort of cliffhanger~~~~~ am i ever gonna stop doing that? no
> 
> hope you liked it! im probably gonna post the shorter chapter segment updates, so hopefully ill be back in the next 2-3 weeks- or less, i don't know my work schedule.

**Author's Note:**

> haha did u like it
> 
> anyways hopefully ill have the second chapter done in like,,,, a week tops? once school starts up for me in august updates will be much less frequent, but like.... whatever this is just so my mind stops screeching at me.  
> anyways ciao


End file.
